Concrete Evidence (28 page)

“Not at the time,” Haig argued. “When he actually went missing is subjective.”

“What do you mean?”

“Social Services don’t always report missing kids at the exact moment they realise that they can’t account for one,” she heard him slurping. He yawned loudly again. “They tend to report them when they are absolutely certain that they can’t be found. In this case, we felt that they were unsure when the boy had gone missing. He could have been missing days before they actually made his disappearance official.”

“But the date of the report is the same as Simon Barton’s.” 

“I am aware of that,” Haig said irritably. “But that doesn’t necessarily mean that that was when he actually went missing.” He stressed his point. “In reality, they could have been days apart. I wouldn’t let Social Services look after my cat.”

“Are you saying that there was an issue with the details in their report?”

“There’s always an issue with them,” Haig sounded frustrated. “Look, he was a runaway. Social Services had a file on him as long as my arm. He would frequently runaway and each time he did, they found him back with the travellers. They would remove him back into care and he would run away again. The kid was like a ping pong ball bouncing all over the place.”

“Why did they keep taking him into care?”

“The father was in jail and the mother was an alcoholic. She beat him and her other six kids black and blue. The siblings were in care all over the country.”

“Did his name crop up in connection with the Barton investigation?” Annie pressed him.

“No, there was no reason to connect them. We dismissed it as soon as we had his file.”

“Was there any connection between them at all no matter how tenuous?” Annie felt that he was holding something back.

“Tenuous!” he scoffed. “I don’t know why you’re fishing for something that isn’t there.” He sighed. “If I remember rightly, I think that they played in the same leisure centre football club but Goodwin was just there to keep him off the streets. He never made any of the teams and he only turned up for practice sessions for a few weeks.”

“And that didn’t strike you as a possible connection?”

“No,” Haig insisted. “That centre has hundreds of members from five year olds up to the senior teams.” She could hear anger creeping into his tone. “It is a big sports social club with tennis, badminton, a swimming pool, basketball, you name it and they play it there.” He sounded exasperated. “Football is just one of the sports they teach and there is a team for each year group. The seniors had a spell in the Conference League for a while. It’s a coincidence that they were in the same club. They may never have met.”

“But on the flip side, they could have,” Annie countered. “Please answer me honestly now,” she said flatly. “Did you investigate any link into their disappearances at the time?”

“I know how to conduct an investigation, Inspector,” Haig snapped. “And can I remind you that we’re the same rank.” He took a deep breath. “Look, I don’t want to fall out with you here but they lived in different worlds. We explored every possibility to find Simon Barton and there was no tangible connection to the Godwin boy.”

“Goodwin,” Annie corrected him annoyed.

“What?”

“His surname was Goodwin.”

“Whatever.” He sighed. “I really need to get to the station so are we done here?”

“No we’re bloody well not done here, Inspector!” Annie said sternly. “Listen to me and listen hard,” she paused. “If anyone looked at this as a cold case, they would discover that they played in the same football club, went missing on the same day and neither of them ever turned up, coincidence?” Annie said calmly. “I would say that that is slightly more than a coincidence and your investigation looks flawed.”

“I disagree.”

Annie took a moment to allow her anger to settle. “Did you ever follow up with Social Services to see if he ever found his way back to the travellers?”

“I don’t see that as our remit.” Haig yawned. “We’re detectives not social workers.”

“So we don’t know if this kid is alive or not.”

“We handed his file back to Social Services. His and a lot of others,” Haig said impatiently. “You’re chasing a ghost. How the hell can we keep tabs on every runaway?”

“Because that’s our job,” Annie sighed. “A couple of phone calls could have sufficed.”

“I had other priorities. Our investigation was thorough and conclusive.”

“Other priorities, really?” Annie sighed.

“Look, Inspector,” he snapped. “The Barton case was dissected by the review team, both before and after the appeal.”

“Maybe it was but did you make it clear that James Goodwin disappeared on the same day?”

“No, as I explained, I didn’t know for certain that he did!”

“In that case, I’ll make it my priority to find out,” she paused, “I’ll need everything that you have on the Simon Barton case and I want it at MIT before noon today.”

“You have no authority to insist on such a thing,” Haig replied sourly.

“I am the lead detective on the Major Investigation Team, which pretty much means that I can ask for whatever I want if it is connected to one of my cases,” Annie said calmly. “If you really want me to go over your head for this I’m quite prepared to do that.” 

“Are you kidding me?” Haig said aghast. He was annoyed but he knew that she was right. The brass would back her to the hilt. They may have been the same rank but she was his senior when push came to shove. She was earmarked for the upper echelon of the force while he worked in the outback. There was only one winner. He bit his tongue and sighed. “Do you have any idea how much information that is? That could take me days.”

“Lunchtime today, DI Haig or Detective Superintendent Ramsay will be crawling up your arse with a big torch. He is overseeing this case with a microscope and we’ll see if he thinks your investigation was thorough and conclusive shall we?”

“I am happy with the way we handled the investigation.” Haig sounded anything but happy.

“Good. Then you won’t have any problem sending the files over, will you?”

“No.”

“You can start by sending everything related to James Goodwin first,” Annie said. “Any problem with that?”

“None at all. It will be there this morning.” Haig hung up.

**********************

“We’ll find you, kiddo, one way or the other,” Annie looked at the picture of James Goodwin and then closed the file. She dialled Alec.

“Annie,” Alec answered. “Any joy on tracing this Rob Derry?”

“Nothing, Guv. We’re using names that can be shortened to Rob. There are over sixty people on the electoral roll with that name,” Annie sighed. “It’s a work in progress but so far we can’t find anyone that fits the bill. I think it’s an alias, Guv.”

“He’s hardly likely to use his real name is he?”

“Tod Harris does.”

“Fair enough,” Alec smiled, “although he isn’t the sharpest tool in the box is he?”

“No,” Annie had to agree, “I’ve just spoken to the DI at Halewood.”

“What did you find out?”

“That DI ‘vague’ lives up to his title,” Annie said sarcastically. “The boys were members of the same leisure centre football club although Haig insisted that Goodwin only attended practice sessions for a few weeks and there was no connection found between their disappearances.”

“And you disagree with him?”

“I can’t look past the obvious, Guv.” Annie shrugged and thought about her words. “I don’t think the idea that they could have been connected was explored properly.” She explained. “There was a solid connection between Peter Barton and our victims,” she began. “We have established that as a fact. Now our main suspect is found in possession of a photograph and underwear belonging to a young boy that went missing on the same day as Simon Barton did. The boy that Peter Barton was convicted of abducting. Can that be a coincidence?” Annie paused. She waited for Alec to comment but he didn’t. She knew that he wanted to hear what she thought before he would give his opinion. “If Tod Harris took those boys, then he has a motive to remove Barton’s alibi. Barton took the fall for it. Okay, he was released on appeal but the case remains closed, which says it all to me. He’s still guilty in the eyes of the law and in everybody else’s opinion too, he’s a child killer that got away.”

“Hence he shot himself?”

“Imagine yourself in his shoes, innocent of child murder but no one believes you.”

“Difficult.”

“Difficult is an understatement,” Annie said thoughtfully. “Wrongly accused and then your alibis are murdered. It may have sent him over the edge.”

“What about the money, Annie?” Alec played devil’s advocate.

“That I’m not sure about. Maybe it was a gift.”

“A hundred thousand pound thank you for the alibi?”

“Maybe.”

“Where are we on proving this one way or the other?”

“DI vague is sending over the case files for the Barton and Goodwin investigations. I really need the DNA on the second pair of underpants to come back as a match to Simon Barton then we’re in business.”

“That would help matters considerably.”

“Kathy said we’d have results later today.”

“Good,” Alec said. “Let me know when you have them.”

“Will do.” Annie hung up. A knock on her door made her look up. “Come in.” Google poked his head around the door. “Morning,” Annie smiled. “Please give me some good news.”

“I have news,” Google waved a handful of papers, “I’ll let you decide if it’s good or not. Have you got ten minutes?”

“Of course, come in,” Annie gestured to the chair. “What have you got?”

Google put two photographs onto Annie’s desk. One was Jackie Webb’s body from the front, the second her back. The carvings in her skin had turned black and scabbed. Annie looked at them and shuddered. She thought about a tattoo that she’d had done a few years before. A blue rose on her shoulder blade. The outline had hurt her to the point of tears. She could only imagine how much Jackie must have suffered as the killer carved the text into her skin. “We’re done translating, Guv,” he said taking a seat. “I have to be honest, some of this still has me baffled and I struggled with this bit for a while,” he said smiling. He waved his finger at the photos, “especially the numbers and sequences. But once we translated all the text, we matched it up with the numbers and suddenly some of it makes sense.”

“Okay, what does it mean?” Annie asked frowning.

“Our killer is quite the criminal historian, Guv,” Google said excitedly. “See here, 71-73-3.”

“Yes.”

“On its own it meant nothing to me but then we translated the text below and it reads, Rochester, New York and below that, the Alphabet Killer.”

“Go on,” Annie prompted him.

“The Alphabet Killer murders happened between 1971 and 1973 and there were three victims, 71-73-3. No one was ever convicted of the murders.”

“Why carve that into Jackie Webb?”

“That’s just the start,” Google held up his hand. “See here, 76-77-4, the Oakland Child Killer, Michigan.” He looked at Annie to see if she was following him. “Four children were murdered between 1976 and 1977, again unsolved. He carves the date of their activity and the number of victims.”

“Okay,” Annie nodded thoughtfully. “But what is the point?”

“I can have a guess,” Google said removing his glasses. “See here, five victims in Nevada were officially accredited to the Zodiac Killer between 1960 and the early 70’s but our killer carved 60-72-37, next to his name. He replaced 5 with 37,” he replaced his glasses and pointed to the photo. “I looked into this and although police records show five victims, some experts put his body count much higher, some as high as thirty seven,” he pointed to the number. “The dates and the number of victims, again all unsolved.”

“Okay,” Annie looked intrigued. She could see the pattern but not the message. “I’m keeping up so far but I don’t know where we’re going with this.”

“Bear with me, 88-89-9, the New Bedford Highway killer, Massachusetts. The dates and the number of victims again,” he shrugged, “86-91-10, the Hwaseong serial murders in South Korea,” he carried on, “85-87-13, The Stoneman murders, Calcutta, India.” He looked at her and pushed his glasses to the bridge of his nose. “Each time the killer has carved the dates and number of victims of unsolved serial murders from all across the world. The key point is that they were all unsolved.”

“Am I missing the point here?”

“The odd one out is this one,” Google raised his finger again. “It is much different to the others, 05-OG-22 td.”

“That is different.” Annie commented on the letters where the date should have been. “Twenty-two victims?”

“Twenty-two, td,” Google emphasised.

“Where does he say that these murders were?”

“This was written below ‘the Butcher of Crosby Beach’,” he sat back and shook his head. “He was building up to this. I think the letters O and G mean, ongoing,” he explained.

“And td?”

“To date.”

“Twenty-two victims?” Annie stood up and walked to the window. “That’s many more than we thought although we guessed that there would be more. Brendon Ryder had been at it for years.” Peter Barton’s home was full of newspaper reports from all over the world and they found several books about serial killers. He had also followed the Crosby Beach murders closely. The analysis of Tod Harris’s laptop searches had showed that he frequently searched online for images of murder victims, autopsies and worse. “This is very good work, Google,” Annie said looking out across the river. The sun was rising but it radiated little warmth. “Tod Harris is a dangerous schizophrenic, I’m convinced that he is completely unhinged from reality,” Annie said thoughtfully. “What do you think he’s trying to say?”

“I think that he’s taunting us with unsolved serial killers and telling us that he thinks the Butcher is still at large and that there are far more victims than we thought.” He frowned and checked his sheet. “Twenty-two ‘to date’ in fact, which implies that there will be more to come.” He shrugged. “I think he’s trying to claim that he is either responsible for the Butcher’s victims or that he knows who is and that he intends to keep on killing.” He coughed into his fist. “Again, that’s just my opinion of course.”   

“That would explain some of it,” Annie nodded and frowned. “Why imply that he is the Butcher when there can be no credibility applied to it?” Annie turned and leaned against the glass. “It isn’t like we didn’t catch the killer,” she shrugged. “Brendon Ryder is dust.”

“In my opinion,” Google rubbed his chin and lowered his voice. “He’s a raving lunatic. We shouldn’t try to find sense and logic in a damaged mind.”

“Maybe,” Annie smiled.

“For some serial killers that I’ve read about, it’s all about becoming notorious,” Google sat back. “But the most dangerous killers in my opinion, have no desire to be caught. They are totally focused on remaining at liberty to continue their lives as normally as possible so that they can kill when the urge takes them. I don’t think that we know half of what the most intelligent killers have done purely and simply because they are clever,” he paused. “If they change their victim’s profiles, their hunting zones and their MO, we would never connect their victims especially in places like the US, Russia and Asia.”

“And that is if they choose to leave the bodies for us to find,” Annie agreed. “But Tod Harris,” she paused and shook her head, “part of him wanted to create a sterile crime scene but the other side wanted us to connect the dots and work it out.”

“I think that he simply unravelled, Guv.” Google pointed to the photographs. “As you said, he was unhinged anyway but something switched off in his mind and he lost control. Hence leaving the scenes compromised. Reading all this script, I genuinely think he has tipped over the edge.”

“I agree,” Annie said. “Good work, Google,” she smiled. “I want you to share these pictures with Interpol. Let’s see if there are any similar cases out there.”

“Will do, Guv.” Google smiled and stood up. He picked up the photographs and then stopped in the doorway. “There are more number sequences, Guv but we’re still working on them,” he paused. “Do you mind if I get some of the team to start working on the books and computers taken from Harris’s home, Guv?”

“No,” she frowned. “Do you think that he’s kept the reference material for the script?”

He nodded and smiled wryly.

“Carry on with it,” she said with a grin. She sat back in her chair and closed her eyes. They had Tod Harris, hook, line and sinker. That was a definite but there were too many unanswered questions left to put the case in the hands of the Crown Prosecution Service yet. She had to investigate Harris’s claims that a man called Rob Derry existed and she had to look at the abductions of Simon Barton and James Goodwin. Her thoughts were disturbed by the phone ringing. “DI Jones,” she answered.

“Annie,” the familiar voice of Kathy Brooks said. “We’ve got a problem with the Peter Barton autopsy.”

“What kind of problem?” Annie asked confused.

“The worst kind,” Kathy replied flatly. “The body in my lab is not Peter Barton and I don’t believe it was a suicide.”          

                             CHAPTER 31

  Emilia Harris sat on her son’s bed and touched the duvet with the fingers of her right hand. Her mind went back to a time when she would sit on the edge of his bed and watch her little boy sleeping. She would stroke his hair and listen to his breathing and wonder what life had in store for him. Would he be a lawyer or a doctor? He was intelligent enough for sure. There was a sparkle in his eyes that captivated people and his smile was angelic. He had all the gifts that a child could need.
What went wrong?
Another tear leaked from her reddened eyes onto the moist scrunched up tissue that she held tightly in her hand. She had changed the sheets just in case Tod came home although she knew deep down that he wouldn’t. Not this time. She’d felt angry at first, not with Tod, with the police. They were picking on him because of the other girls. Young girls nowadays asked for it, going out half dressed and falling over drunk. Was it any surprise that young men got the wrong signals? Tod had misread the moment. Well, he had unfortunately misread several moments. He’d made mistakes, sure, but he couldn’t have done what they were accusing him off. Murder? Rape? Since the police arrested him, she had been on an emotional elevator ride that only went down. She had been bouncing from one emotion to another and just when she thought that she couldn’t go any lower, the elevator went down to another level, and another, and another. She hadn’t stopped crying for days. She felt that nothing else could hurt her more than this. The police were so cold and callous. They had trawled through every inch of the house and garden as if she didn’t live there. It was as if she was invisible. Men and women in white paper suits walked past her as if she didn’t exist. When they did look at her, their eyes were full of disapproval and accusations. She’d been confined to her living room for most of the day. When she had asked a question they had spoken to her as if she was a nuisance. A nuisance in her own home. Her son was being accused of some terrible crimes.   

Rape?

Murder?

Little boys?

When they had shown her the picture of the young boy she couldn’t understand what they were saying.
Was the boy a relation or a neighbour’s child?
And then they asked her if she recognised some underwear. Once she realised the implications, her stomach turned. She had not been able to answer their questions after that. Her head felt like it was filled with cotton wool. She had felt numb inside. They were convinced that Tod was a rapist, a murderer. That was bad enough but little boys? She could never live that down as long as she lived. She had given birth to a monster. That innocent little boy had grown up to be evil. She wondered if she should have seen it in him, could she have stopped it somehow. Her little boy that she cherished so much had gone and that’s what hurt so much. The child was gone, replaced by a sickening monster.
Her flesh and blood
.  

Emilia sobbed and lay down, her head on her son’s pillow. The smell of him was still there beneath the freshness of the fabric conditioner. She closed her eyes and pulled her knees to her chest as her tears trickled down her cheeks onto the cotton. For the first time since her husband, Ben had died, she was glad that he was dead. If he had been alive the shock would have killed him anyway. The shock and the shame of it all. The neighbours were avoiding her already, pretending that they hadn’t seen her. One of them had crossed the road when she saw her coming. What would it be like after a trial? Especially when it came out about the boys. It would be a hundred times worse, a thousand times worse, maybe even a million times worse. She didn’t think that she would be strong enough to cope with it all. Was any mother strong enough to sit in a courtroom and listen to the details of what their own flesh and blood had done with their hands? Hands that were once so tiny, sticky hands that helped him to crawl and then pull himself up when he began to walk. Hands that were covered in paint and glue and jelly and blancmange. Hands that were once tender and loving. The same hands that he had used to butcher other human beings, women, children. She felt as if her heart was being ripped out of her chest and crushed by the hands of an invisible giant. She closed her eyes tightly and her chest heaved as she tried to breathe through the tears. She felt like she wanted to die.

The doorbell rang and was followed immediately by a loud knock. Emilia sat upright and wiped her eyes. She straightened her blouse and blew her nose before walking out of the room closing the door behind her. The caller knocked again, louder this time. “Coming!” she shouted. She could see the shadow of the person at the door. They rang the doorbell again. “I’m coming!” she shouted. “I haven’t got a jetpack strapped to my backside,” she muttered beneath her breath. From the stairs, she could see that the silhouette behind the door belonged to a male. She reached the door and checked her appearance in the mirror on the wall. Her eyes were puffy and it was obvious that she’d been crying. She took a deep breath and slid the chain into the lock before twisting the handle and opening it.

“Mrs Harris?” the man asked. His thick curly hair and stubble were greying.

“Yes.”

“Police, Mrs Harris,” the man said. He flashed his identity card. “I’ve got a few questions that I need to ask you.”

“More questions?” Emilia mumbled. She took the chain from the lock and opened the door fully. “How can there be more questions? It’s Tod you need to be asking not me. I’m sick of the whole thing.”

“I won’t keep you long, Mrs Harris,” he said smiling. He tucked his hands into the pockets of his long raincoat. “It is very important.”

“You’d better come in then,” she said stepping back to allow him in. “You look like Columbo in that coat,” she said without thinking. “Might be a bit before your time but he wore a raincoat like that.” She smiled nervously. “Do you remember him?”

“Yes I do,” he nodded but didn’t return her smile. “This is very important.”

“Come into the living room. Sit down. Do you want a cup of tea?” she gestured to the settee.

“No. I’m fine thanks,” he smiled thinly and sat down. “There are some very difficult questions that I need to ask you about Tod, Mrs Harris,” he gestured for her to sit in the chair. She straightened her floral patterned skirt and sat down opposite him. She eyed a packet of cigarettes on her coffee table but resisted the urge to light one. Her twenty a day habit had ballooned into a forty a day habit. He sensed her discomfort. “Smoke if you like. I don’t mind,” he smiled thinly. Emilia shrugged and reached for the packet. She lit one up and inhaled deeply. “Did Tod ever mention a friend of his to you, a man by the name of Rob Derry?”

“Rob Derry?” she inhaled again. Her eyes narrowed in thought. “I don’t think so. He never talked to me about his friends,” she sighed and took another drag, “in fact, he never really talked to me at all except when he needed something.”

“You’re sure about that?”

“Yes.”

“Did he tell you that he was going out at weekends and drugging women so that he could rape them?”

“Of course not,” she inhaled and scowled. “What do you think I am?”

“You tell me,” he said quietly.

“If I had known,” she shook her head but didn’t finish her sentence.

“What?”

“I’m sorry,” Emilia stuttered.

“If you had known what he was doing, you would have done what?”

“I don’t know,” she said in a whisper. “I don’t know what I would have done.”

“Did he ever bring women back here?” he asked. “You know, girlfriends.”

“No.”

“Never”

“No.”

“What about when he was a younger man?”

“No, never.” Her eyes glazed over as she thought back.
Why had he never brought his girlfriends home?

“What about young boys?”

“What?”

“Did he ever bring young boys back here?” he shrugged, “maybe to play on his computer games in the shed?”

“I know what you’re implying,” she said angrily. “Don’t be disgusting,” Emilia shook her head. Her hands were shaking as she stubbed out her cigarette and lit another one immediately.

“You have a very tidy house, Mrs Harris,” he sat forward and steepled his hands beneath his chin. “Did you ever look through his personal stuff?”

“No,” she said quietly. Her face changed colour.

“Never,” he smiled. “I can’t believe that you were never tempted to take a little peek in his drawers, maybe?” She didn’t answer but her face reddened. “Did you look at his laptop to see what he’d been watching?”